


Morning Rituals

by treesblooming



Series: Mornings and Evenings and Things in Between [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale finds himself Wanting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, and mornings are important to him, partly a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treesblooming/pseuds/treesblooming
Summary: There is a moment, right before the sun rises, that Aziraphale loves.Indulgences that involve his bookshop, breakfast, the future, and Crowley. In no particular order.





	Morning Rituals

i.

There is a moment, right before the sun rises, that Aziraphale loves. The skies shift from a dark to subtle blue, slowly unmasking shadows. During this time, Aziraphale spends his time in his bookshop, weaving through bookshelves. He runs his hands through his books, petting the covers and caressing the spines, murmuring good mornings and inspecting if any have been damaged or misplaced from the previous day. The artificial light from the streets fade and, for a moment, he is left in semi-darkness, quiet and calm and at peace. The books whisper back their good mornings and somewhere outside, a bell tinkles as Mr. Hanson’s delivery boy rushes through the empty streets on his bicycle.

And then the sun peeks from the clouds and thin rays of light come in, revealing his shop in bits and pieces. The stuffed chair that houses books of poetry and gardening and flight patterns. The table stacked with books sold at discounted prices. The display shelf where the books there preen and Aziraphale has to remind them not to be too vainglorious.

He loves this, the time when his shop is just waking up when the world is just waking up. A small cozy moment right before the chaos that is living.

 

 

ii. 

Crowley surprises him and turns up just as he’s flipping the sign to welcome customers.

“Angel.” His voice is low but soft. Ah, so he was asleep. Aziraphale has allowed himself to imagine— once or maybe a thousand more, he tries not to keep track— what it would be like to hear that but first thing in the morning, in a quiet corner of the world, where they are the only witnesses to each other.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greets him and hopes that Crowley hears everything he’s leaving unsaid. _It’s only been weeks but I’m terribly glad to see you and hear you—and if I were brave, perhaps I’d rest my hand on your cheek._

“They’ve missed you at Glasgow,” Crowley tells him over breakfast. They’ve taken to the café across town. It’s the only place around that make passable croissants and Aziraphale had insisted on taking Crowley out. Customers can wait. Across him, Crowley is languid, the stretch of his body almost fluid, as he leans closer to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale laughs at that. “No, they do not,” he insists. “It’s been years!”

“And yet the locals still talk about that odd man with the wings that came one night.” Crowley grins. It’s wicked but friendly and oh, Aziraphale has missed that too.

The morning passes by and then the afternoon and as they are finishing up and saying their good-byes, Crowley catches him by the wrist. Aziraphale stops mid-sentence.

“Crowley?”

“Just. Nothing. It’s— I’ll see you around angel,” Crowley says and slips into the Bentley.

 

iii.

Often time, it really is as simple as that.

A walk in the park, pastries in hand. The ducks have learned to anticipate them at least twice a month, eager little things. Crowley growls at them but throws them bits of bread anyway.

Take out, when they can’t afford the effort. Crowley turning up at the bookshop and they’d eat in the backroom, taking turns eating their sandwiches and peaking into the shop whenever the bell rings.

A ton of little cafes, nooks and crannies in the countrysides that have yet to be discovered. They serve some of the best home-cooked meals Aziraphale has had the pleasure of eating and the coffee is always strong. He lets himself imagine that this is their lives: a small cottage, with nothing but grass and dirt surrounding them. A small fireplace, perhaps. Wooden furniture, space for Crowley’s plants. Space for his books. One bedroom—

Aziraphale stops. He mustn’t let his imagination get ahead of him.

But sometimes, they fall into a companionable silence and Crowley is looking outside, mind either far away or nearby, he could never tell. Crowley looks outside and then lets his eyes roam the room before settling on Aziraphale. He doesn’t know what to make of his lingering gaze and how, sometimes, Crowley opens his mouth, as if to say—

Say what? _Anything. Something. Talk to me my dear._

 

iv.

“Oh dear, I’ve kept you too long, I think. My apologies—”’

“Don’t. I’ll stay.”

What to say to that? Aziraphale could try another apology, tell Crowley that he doesn’t have to but.

But, of course, he wants Crowley to stay.

Crowley stands from the kitchen table and places his mug in the sink. He turns and wraps a hand around Aziraphale’s elbow. Aziraphale is on fire— no, he isn’t. But he must be. The hand on his shoulder is hot and his cheeks are warm and how can Crowley not hear the things unsaid?

“I’ll stay Aziraphale,” Crowley says. His voice is, once again, that combination of low but soft. But it’s a different kind of low and a different kind of soft. The softness almost feels…well, Aziraphale could bask in it.

“A-all right. I shan’t be too long. The shop won’t be…be too busy today, I suppose. And—”

“Angel.” Crowley cuts him off. “It’s fine.” He laughs. “I’ve nothing to do today. I can wait.”

 

v.

Aziraphale wakes and bites back a groan. He will never get used to sleeping. He wakes and the world is always blurry and confusing. 

And the world is warm. And shifting to wrap an arm around him.

He freezes. Closes his eyes. It comes back to him, slowly, the night before. The bottles of wine, the tumble of words. Crowley unable to move and the bravery Aziraphale finally found, placing a hand on the demon’s cheek, thumbing tracing the skin and Crowley leaning into the touch.

When he opens his eyes, he turns his head and yes, Crowley is still there. Asleep and snug close to him, a quiet reassurance against the drumming of Aziraphale’s heart.

It takes another second but finally, Aziraphale lets a smile grace his face. He reaches out, tucks a hair behind Crowley’s ear.

“Angel,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and Aziraphale shivers at the memory of how he longed for this.

“Keep sleeping,” Aziraphale tells him. He allows himself a minute or ten of running his fingers softly, _softly_ , along Crowley. Carding his hair, tiptoeing up the slope of his shoulder and sliding down his spine. It’s so much more and Aziraphale allows himself this moment.

When he finally comes down to his bookshop, the world is alive and he is ready to join them in jubilation.


End file.
